


don't know where, don't know when

by all_delighted_people



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: B.J. Goes to Maine, Excessive Drinking, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:07:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29853000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/all_delighted_people/pseuds/all_delighted_people
Summary: The mail was supposed to be coming in later. Hawkeye had marked it on the calendar that was pinned to the kitchen wall. He was sure that Mrs. Stevenson would not appreciate the pinholes in her wall, but he kept telling himself that he could learn how to buff them out before he left. At least that’s what he told himself before he had taken to pinning every postcard up, from Boston to San Francisco. And right to the side—a picture of him and B.J. on R&R. They popped against the wallpaper; helped brighten up the dark winter days.Hawkeye lives alone, B.J. comes to visit
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 14
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

The mail was supposed to be coming in later. Hawkeye had marked it on the calendar that was pinned to the kitchen wall. He was sure that Mrs. Stevenson would not appreciate the pinholes in her wall, but he kept telling himself that he could learn how to buff them out before he left. At least that’s what he told himself before he had taken to pinning every postcard up, from Boston to San Francisco. And a right to the side—a picture of him and B.J. on R&R. They popped against the wallpaper; helped brighten up the dark winter days. 

The weather had been awfully moody these last couple of days and there was supposed to be a nor'easter coming in within the week. Hopefully, it wouldn’t affect the mail boat, but he wouldn’t be disappointed if it did. It would just give him a bigger buffer. He needed to remember to grab some more firewood from the shed before the snow kicked back up. 

Finishing the row of his latest knit project, he set it down on the kitchen table before stretching out his back. Sitting hunched over sure wasn’t helping it. He got up, attempting to get out the last crick before going over to pour himself another cup of coffee. 

***

It had been his dad’s idea. 

When he first got back he slept for a week straight and when he woke up nothing felt right. Everything was two degrees left of normal—he hadn’t been able to get comfortable. 

Crabapple Cove hadn’t changed at all while he was gone. It was uncanny; he felt so different and he came back and everyone was almost the same—give or take three years. Looking at pictures of himself around the house felt more like looking at a stranger than a memory. When he left he had a bright future ahead of him, and he came back boney, gray, and alone. 

The weeks since seemed to melt together. The long summer days became a coin toss between sitting inside and drinking or sitting outside and drinking. Sometimes, if he was really feeling antsy, he’d go down to the shore to sit and drink. A real exciting life for a real exciting guy.

His dad was pushing him here and there; never too hard, but it was obvious that he was worried. Hawkeye tried to placate him by going in with him to a clinic a couple of days a week. Sure, he felt a little useless taking temperatures when barely a month ago he was pulling metal out of kids but he needed the break. He kept telling himself he needed the break.

Sydney had said that he should get right back into it and Hawkeye was becoming increasingly worried that that window was closing. Before he’d left he’d been told to just give a call back to Boston when he got home; that they’d be more than happy to have him back. He remembered this almost every time that he passed the phone on the kitchen wall, before going into the living room to sit instead. The thought of calling—of going back in—was too much. 

Everything was too much. 

He could handle the little things: getting out of bed, making coffee, bird-watching in the backyard. On a good day, he could even muster up the energy to go down to the beach. But the big things — sleeping through the night, not over-drinking, going back to normal — were unclimbable obstacles for him. It was like he was at the base of Mt. Everest without any gear. Although apparently even that had been conquered while he was in Korea. 

He kept dreaming of the damn place. The worst part was that they weren’t all nightmares. He was prepared for those, the scenes of surgery with blood rising up like a flood or watching his friends walk into minefields while he sat by helpless. They still woke him up in a cold sweat, but he was ready. It was the unremarkable ones that got under his skin. The ones where it felt like just another day in Korea—like he had never gone home.

_Hawkeye was in the mess tent alone, his tray filled with the same slop that they always had, when he realized that the war was over. It was so obvious, of course it was over._

_Then he was surrounded by people, the sounds of chatter and trays clinking filled the tent. He desperately tried to convince everyone that it was done, that they could all go home. Everyone just looked at him with the same pitying look that they gave him when he came back at the end. Margaret pursed her lips, trying not to show her concern. Potter shook his head, eyes falling to the eye. Father Mulcahey gave him a look he only gave his gravest cases. He turned to B.J., who was now sitting next to him. Or was always sitting next to him. He had always been there. Why wouldn't he be?_

_He grabbed onto B.J.’s hand. “Beej, you gotta believe me.”_

_B.J. didn’t say anything. And then he was back in the sanatorium, B.J. was standing at the doorway, leaving but not telling him. Refusing to tell him._

_“I just thought there might be something that we wanted to say to each other before I left.”_

_Hawkeye wanted to scream at him. He tried to scream at him, but nothing came out. His mouth wouldn't work. His throat was tightening, and he turned to Sydney, who only shrugged at his predicament. When he turned back, the doorway was empty._

That one had got him to wake up screaming. 

On top of all of that, there was the mail. He had started getting letters from everyone almost immediately. Updates from Boston, Philly, Ottumwa, Hannibal, and Mill Valley. Updates about family, farms, retirement, new jobs. Everyone seemed to be moving forward, and here he was living in his fucking childhood bedroom that hadn’t changed since he left for college. 

It wasn’t just that everyone was adjusting better than he was, every letter reminded him how bone-achingly lonely he was. Especially the ones from Mill Valley. 

He knew he should respond, and in the beginning, he woke up telling himself that he would. He would pull them out of his desk drawer and read them. 

_You can do this. People can read letters and write responses. You can do this._

Then he’d hit a mention of how Erin was walking around, or how Peg made a cake “just because”, or how B.J. had spent the afternoon mowing the lawn and any constitution that he had deflated. They were just a painful reminder of how much B.J. belonged there and how little he belonged anywhere. Back in Korea, he was so afraid that he would never see him again, but here he was now unable to see a life where he did. They had already said goodbye. It broke his heart, but so what? It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his heart broken before. What made B.J. different? 

He stopped himself from answering that question.

So he just stuffed the letters back into the drawer and put away his stationary. Maybe it was better if he didn’t respond at all. This would be it for him, his _Lost Horizon_.

He was sitting at the kitchen table one morning, sometime in October. He was reading the Crabapple Cove Gazette—which was significantly less interesting than he remembered it being in Korea—when his dad came into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Hawkeye said, as his dad poured himself a cup of coffee. “I thought you headed into the clinic already.”

“No, I told Maureen that I’d be in late today. There’s nothing on the agenda until later. You eat anything yet?”

“Just some toast.”

“Ah.”

There was a pause. 

His dad had been treading lightly around him. Like he was afraid that anything might set him off. Which was fair; he did spend a non-zero number of days stuck in that sanatorium during that last bit. And he had woken up screaming a couple of times. And there was that one time that he drank half a bottle of vodka while they had visitors and had allegedly made a scene. It still led to awkward moments of silence, while he waited for his dad to pick his next safe sentence. He was already a man a few words, and these new pauses only accentuated how uncomfortable he felt. How uncomfortable Hawkeye apparently made him. It was funny, Hawkeye spent the entire war saying that he needed to get back to his dad and the last couple of months remembering why he moved out in the first place. 

He kept reading the paper. Calling it reading was a stretch. Lately, it was closer to slogging through. It was another reminder of how little any of the shit he went through even registered in the average American consciousness. Becky Wheeler’s prize-winning zucchini bread was the most important thing to these people.

It was better than reading the Times when it came on Sunday. That was where the important stories were—and each one of those important stories left out anything of actual import. They just had the same fluff that that correspondent tried to pedal back in Korea. 

He had started flipping to the features right away after seeing a story—front page, it was unavoidable—about the PoW repatriations. He had sat there for too long, reading it and re-reading it. He couldn’t stop wondering how many of those boys he had worked on. How many of them had white cotton sutures? 

Sometimes reading about zucchini bread was better. 

“Remember Chuck Stevenson?” his dad finally said, pulling him back out of his thoughts. 

“How could I forget Crabapple Cove’s star quarterback?” Hawkeye flipped to the next page. “Why?”

“He came into the clinic yesterday.”

“How was he?”

“Good, he has two girls now, Debby and little Nancy.” His dad took a sip of his coffee. “He asked about you.”

“Oh, did he?”

“Yup.”

There was another pause. Hawkeye was just waiting to see where this was heading. 

“You know, I ran into his dad the other week.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He mentioned that they were looking for someone to look after their summer home.”

Oh, he remembered that house. Chuck had thrown a prom afterparty there. It was dingy and cramped, but the promises of getting to go up in the lighthouse convinced them all to go out. He had gotten the ferry driver, who doubled as his uncle, to take them over late. They wheelbarrowed a keg out there and he had spent a significant portion of that night trying not to barf all over his tux while Tommy rubbed his back. 

“Did he?”

“I mentioned that you might be interested.”

There it was. 

“So you’re volunteering me as a lighthouse keeper?”

“It’d be a good way to get you to lighten up,” he said with a smile.

“Boo,” he said, crumpling up a page and throwing it at him, “Get off the stage!”

His dad laughed before taking another sip of his coffee.

“I thought it might be good for you. Getting away and clearing your head. Breath in the ocean air. Get some space from your old man.”

“Crabapple Cove is pretty far away from everything.”

“Ben.”

“So was Korea.”

“You know what I mean. You’ve just seemed so… lost.”

Another pause. Another safe choice. 

“So I’m just supposed to pack everything up and go live on an island for a season?”

“Why not? What’s the harm?”

He didn't have a good answer to that question. And so he packed what he had—which really only was a suitcase and change—and went out in late October.

***

It was now about halfway through January.

He went to pour himself another cup before realizing that the pot was already empty. He never thought that he’d miss anything from Korea, except for the obvious, but the ever-flowing coffee would have been well-appreciated right now. He took the filter out, refilling the pot with water. He should probably change out the grounds, but he didn’t know how much was left in the tin. They were probably good for one more pot. He wasn’t picky. 

In reality, taking care of the Stevenson's summer home was much more boring than he anticipated. The house was cramped, with the kitchen and living room on the first floor and a couple of bedrooms on the second. Everything from its past as a keeper’s house had been stripped away and was replaced with kitschy nautical decor, although that felt more like it was compensating more than anything else. Everything had been updated within the last decade. The most interesting thing in the house was the huge bookshelf in the living room Hawkeye had been meandering through.

It didn’t help that the island didn’t have electricity or telephone service, an incredibly useful fact that his dad had conveniently left out. He had quickly gotten used to keeping up with the needs of the wood-burning stove in the living room and the icebox in the kitchen.

The one thing that he had been able to offer was some medical help, funny enough. Turned out the island didn’t have a doctor, and once people found out about his background they started showing up at his door with various colds and pains. He was happy to help. It gave him something to do besides wander.

It was obvious to Hawkeye that the Stevensons were doing him a favor much more than he was to them.

He guessed he did feel like he was doing a little better out here. His dad was right in insisting that the ocean air would be good for him. It was nice to sit at the landing and read when it wasn’t too cold, breathing it in. It was obvious to himself that he wasn’t doing great - the nightmares and drinking were still there - but it was getting better little by little. 

Well, maybe not getting better. He was getting used to them. He was especially getting used to being alone.

The foghorn outside blared, interrupting his current train of thought. 

He went to go put on his boots, figuring now a good time as any to begin his self-assigned list of chores. First was bringing in firewood, then going down into town (if you could call it that) and checking the mail. He should check the pantry before heading down to make sure that he didn’t need to pick anything else up. He should be good, but there wasn’t any harm in checking.

He buttoned up his coat, preparing himself to go out. 

***

His dad had taken to forwarding anything that came for him in Crabapple Cove. He would pack it all up in a big envelope and send it over about once a week. Hawkeye could handle mail calls once a week. Well, not mail call. He had to remind himself it wasn’t “mail call” anymore. It was just mail. Regular mail. Normal mail.

He had gone back home for Thanksgiving—his dad picked him up and dropped him off at the ferry landing. It was overall uneventful; he sat through polite safe conversations, answered prodding questions without too much protest, and avoided drinking to ease his dad’s worries. The only interesting thing that happened was when Aunt Sarah made a couple of off-hand comments about him, none of which were unexpected or undeserved. 

He ended up on dish duty with his dad after dinner. He dried while his dad washed, a habit that they had fallen into when Hawkeye was young. Mom would cook and they would clean while she would call out interesting tidbits from Reader’s Digest to them from the living room.

“You’re staying warm out there, right?”

“Oh yeah, I have plenty of wood,” Hawkeye said, taking the dish from his dad. “And I’ve been keeping busy too. They’ve got a radio. Though, who knows when those batteries are going to give.”

“I can send some blankets with you—if you need them. And if you let me know when that radio goes, I’ll bring some batteries over.”

“I’m fine, dad. Really.”

“Glad to hear it. Glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

“Dad, I’m 32. I took care of myself before,” He put the dish on the drying rack. 

“I know, I know. It’s just…” He was rinsing a plate, leaving Hawkeye to wait for both the plate and the end of his sentence.

“Ben,” His father said, “You know how many people care about you, right?”

“Dad, of course I know you care.”

“Not just me.” His dad passed the plate. “I’ve gotten a couple of calls from your 4077 friends.”

“Dad—”

“I meant to tell you earlier,” he interrupted, “I figured you wouldn’t want to talk about this in front of Sarah and the cousins.”

“Who called?”

“I wrote down the messages. It was mostly people checking in, especially about those letters you’ve been getting.”

“Oh, that.”

“I’m sure Margaret or Trapper John or B.J. would appreciate it if you dropped a line. They always sounded so fun in your letters. You should try.”

There was another pause, Hawkeye’s fault this time. 

When he got back, there was the manila envelope in the mailbox. His dad had told him that he should be getting it soon. Although when he had pulled him aside as he was leaving to tell him it felt more like a warning. He carried it inside. 

He went straight to the cupboard, giving himself a reward for making it through all that. He poured himself a glass of bourbon, neat, although that was more related to the fact that he didn’t want to go get ice than an actual preference. Bringing the glass with him, he went to relight the fire in the stove before sitting down.

 _You should read them_ , he thought. _You should at least open the bag._

He finished his drink and went for another. 

_You’re such a fucking shmuck, you can’t even open a letter._

His first mistake was opening the envelope. 

It really wasn’t that big of a haul, there were maybe ten or so letters in there. 

His second mistake was going through the letters. 

There were three from the VA that he tossed aside. One postcard from St. Louis that Sherman sent - he and Mrs. Potter went to see the Gateway Arch. A couple letters from Margaret and one from Charles. He was sure Margaret had something to do with Charles’ letter—she had sent that she was working in Boston. A card from Radar. A card from Francis. The rest were from B.J..

There was a postcard with the golden gate bridge on the front, a gaudy font spelling out “Greetings from San Francisco Calif.” B.J. had written on the back.

_Weather’s great, wish you were here. I really do._

He went to refill his glass. He knew he was drinking too much too fast, but he needed a buffer. It was fun, these postcards were like torture devices from his best friend. 

His final mistake was opening the first letter.

_Hey Hawk,_

_San Francisco has been so foggy. It usually moves on before the afternoon, but it’s been sticking lately. Lingering around the harbor. I drive right through it on my way into work. The weather’s been pretty uneventful on this coast otherwise. Erin is finally calling me ‘daddy’. I’ve been bribing her with cookies behind Peg’s back. I think she’s finally gotten used to me sticking around, and used to seeing me out of a uniform. I guess I’ve also gotten used to sticking around. Have you been getting settled up in Maine? Are you still in Maine?_

_The adjustment back to work was easier than I worried. I will say it’s a lot less stressful doing surgery when the hospital isn’t being shelled. It’s funny, sometimes I still feel like I’m back there. I’ll start a joke before remembering that you aren’t there to deliver the punch line. I think that other surgeons think I’m neurotic. The nurses are nice enough about it though. Have you gone back to work yet?_

_I forgot how great it was to not have to wait around for months for a book to share with the entire camp. I’ve been trying to catch up on all the new ones that I missed while we were gone. Even things I never would’ve picked up before. I just finished this one, Fahrenheit 451. I think you’d really like it, Hawk. I don’t know if you like all that science fiction stuff_ — _I usually don’t go for it_ — _but the main character reminds me of you a little. He’s got the same spark you do. Although, I think I’d be able to connect you to anything I read. Must be a side-effect of the nickname. Have you read anything good?_

_I’ve been hoping to get a letter back. I want to know how Maine is, assuming you’re still there. Have the leaves changed? Has it started snowing yet? How’s Crabapple Cove? How’s your dad? Besides that, how are you?_

_Sorry for all the questions._

_Please write back,_

_Beej_

Below his signature, there was a hastily scrawled note, like B.J. had written it right before stuffing it in the envelope 

_P.S. I found this and thought you might want it._

He had folded in a picture of them in their Class A’s that weekend in Tokyo. Hawkeye couldn’t remember where they had taken it, or who they had passed the camera to. They looked so young. B.J’s arm was wrapped around Hawkeye, as they both sat at a table in some bar smiling. 

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no. 

He ripped the letter up, tossing it in the stove. He did it before he could stop himself, and by the time he realized what he’d done it was already burned through. Maybe _that_ had truly been his final mistake. The picture was still in his hand. He sat back down.

_It was early days—when B.J. was still clean-shaven. Most of that weekend had been a blur of bars and food—real food—and shops and parks and hotel rooms. He swore that he had had a drink in his hand that entire 72 hours. He also swore that he didn’t leave BJ's side that entire time, although that didn’t differ much from their routine at the 4077th._

_At one point they had ended up back in B.J.'s hotel room, having stolen a bottle of gin from some party they had wandered through in the lobby. It was the real stuff, not the stuff from the still. Quality. B.J. was making some drink as Hawkeye stared out the window. He was just starting to realize just how drunk he was._

_“I wish we were here on better terms. Then I would have to feel so guilty about enjoying myself.”_

_“God, you’re so dramatic. Come over here,” B.J. called back, holding out a glass._

_He truly looked like he was right out of an advertisement for Levittown. Like he was waiting to offer him a slice of apple pie. Hawkeye didn’t know how he wasn’t more affected by all of this. If he had frayed at the edges, he hadn’t shown it at all. Hawkeye was sure that they looked like an odd pair, walking around. He with his MD in ‘Moral Deficiency’ and B.J.'s in ‘Masculinity, Definition of’._

_“In another life maybe I’d be an actor, only starring in melodramas,” He sauntered over, taking the drink before going to sit on the edge of the bed, “The tabloids would be pitting me against Joan and Bette.”_

_“You are the only person I know with a flawless Laurence Olivier impression,” B.J. responded, following his lead and sitting down next to him, “But I don’t think you’d be any good.”_

_“How dare you insult my theoretical acting career. I’ll have you know I starred in a beautiful film about the 4077th directed by one Trapper John and yours truly. It gave Mrs. Miniver a run for its money.”_

_“You wear your heart on your sleeve! You’d be too heartbroken to act out the tragedies and you’d laugh at your own jokes in the comedies.”_

_“You wound me.”_

_“Good thing I’m a doctor, I can fix it back up,” He put his hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder._

_“We’re on vacation, remember? No talking shop. Just relaxing,” Hawkeye said, shrugging it off. He knew that B.J. didn’t know what he was doing to him. How every move he made seemed designed to tip Hawkeye even more head over heels. Luckily, they were drunk enough that B.J. wouldn’t notice a blush._

_“Is that right? Just relaxing?”_

_“Relaxing, drinking - it’s all the same really. We’ve only a few precious days to pretend that we’re not here.”_

_“I’ll drink to that.”_

_“I already started, you better catch up.”_

_“So, what would we be doing if we were back in the States?”_

_“Are you asking for a fantasy?”_

_“Are you going to share one?”_

_“Well,” Hawkeye leaned back, propping himself up with his elbow, “I guess the question is where to go. There’s the whole country to explore on this imaginary vacation.”_

_“What about Niagara? I’ve heard the falls are beautiful this time of year.”_

_If he had been taking a drink he would have choked a little at that comment, but he wasn’t. He just brushed it off, ignoring the image of honeymoons and romantic getaways._

_“That tourist trap? You could do better than falling water. All the cities up there are nothing special either. I mean, have you ever been to Buffalo? Or Rochester?”_

_“Can’t say I have.”_

_“One of my friends from college was from up there and he used to talk about it all the time. Their local delicacy is this monstrosity called the garbage plate.”_

_“You’re kidding.”_

_“Nope. He brought us all up for a weekend on Lake Ontario once and he made us all get one. Just thick meat sauce on top of macaroni salad and home fries. I’m surprised they haven’t sold it to the army yet.”_

_“What a delightful fantasy you’ve laid out.”_

_“I’m just giving you reasons why you shouldn’t go to Niagara Falls.”_

_“Fine, no Upstate New York.”_

_“Western New York,” Hawkeye corrected._

_“No Western New York,” B.J. said, rolling his eyes._

_B.J. leaned back with him._

_“You don’t have to go anywhere specific. You can go dancing in any city.”_

_“Aren’t you coming?” B.J. asked, a little quieter than before._

_“Do you want me to?”_

_“It is our imaginary vacation,” B.J. said._

_“Fine, we are going dancing,” He stressed the ‘we’ in response._

_“So we’re going dancing, finally a start to this damn thing.”_

_“We’re in a club, right? It’s a real classy joint. They’ve got a dance floor, with their own house band. There’s a lounge singer giving her best rendition of Again, you know that Doris Day song? With the Mellomen? You know, again, this couldn't happen again.”_

_He gave his best lounge singer impression, and B.J. laughed along with it. B.J.’s laugh almost made everything else about this place worth it._

_“Is it Doris singing?”_

_“No, our gal hasn’t been discovered yet. The dance floor isn’t filled yet, just a couple of couples. The lights are low, and it’s a little smokey from the cigarettes and cigars. That’s just giving it character, though. We’re over by the bar, both dressed sharp as a tack.”_

_“No angora smoking jackets?”_

_Hawkeye laughed. “No angora, but you can wear a smoking jacket. Let see, It’s—uh—red velvet.”_

_“Fancy.”_

_Usually, when they played this game_ — _if you could call it a game_ — _they were occupied with other things. Knitting, darning, solitaire. Or at least they were on different beds. But now B.J.’s knee was grazing against Hawkeye’s own. And he was staring at him, his eyes too bright for how drunk they were. That bastard sure did make all of this harder. Hawkeye took another sip of his drink before continuing._

_“Nothing but the best. We finish our drinks right as not-Doris finishes her song. We both clap, because that’s the polite thing to do. The rest of the club joins in, and she gives a little curtsy. She hasn’t been in the game very long, so she’s not used to the attention yet. After the applause peters out the band begins their next song,” He paused to think of which song to play, “We’ll Meet Again.”_

_“Vera Lynn, A classic.” B.J. was still staring right at Hawkeye when he turned to get up. “This is the part where we dance, right?”_

_“There were some ladies at the end of the bar I was just about to introduce.”_

_"I don't see anyone else. Besides, I need to keep my skills up."_

_"Knock it off, Beej." Hawkeye rolled his eyes as he sat up. Slowly, so as not to trigger any spins._

_“Come on, Hawk. It’ll be fun.”_

_“We don’t have any music.”_

_“Guess we’ll have to improvise.” B.J. cleared his throat, and started to sing, “We’ll meet again.”_

_“Beej,” Hawkeye said, trying not to plead._

_“Don’t know where. Don’t know when.” He had started to sway a little bit, really trying to sell his performance. He held out his hand._

_Hawkeye knew that B.J. was only doing this because he was drunk. He knew that he was drunk too. He knew that he was just a poor stand-in for Peg. He knew that they wouldn’t have to acknowledge this. He could just pretend. He took his hand._

_“You’re going to have to start over.”_

_B.J. pulled Hawk in, placing his hand on the small of his back. Hawkeye put his hand on B.J.’s shoulder. B.J. smiled at Hawkeye, and if Hawkeye didn’t know better he would’ve read into it. Right now he wasn’t sure if he knew better._

_“We’ll meet again,” B.J. sang, gently swaying with Hawkeye, “Don’t know where. Don’t know when. But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day.”_

Hawkeye knocked his glass on the floor, where it promptly shattered. 

Nope, _that_ was his final mistake. Although, maybe everything had been a mistake. 

Hawkeye sat there for a moment —picture in his hands and the stove creaking in the background — before getting up. He left the glass to clean up in the morning. He’d read the rest of the letters tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> B.J. shows up to a snowstorm in a raincoat; in which both parties are ill-prepared.

The bell jingled as he entered the post office. He stomped his feet to get the snow off his boots. 

“Afternoon, Ben,” John, the head (and only) mailman on the island, called from behind the counter. “I think I saw your package, let me find it.”

“No worries, I’ll wait in here.”

Hawkeye took off his gloves, stuffing them into his pockets before blowing into his hands to try to warm them up. He was hoping to have missed the storm but that was a pipe dream by now. It was blowing something terrible outside. He went to go sit on the bench by the door. He sure was glad he refilled the stove before heading out. Now he had a warm house to look forward to as he read. Maybe he would finally finish the hat he’d been knitting. 

“Weather bad?”

“Yup, and getting worse.”

“Hope that ferry gets back safe.”

Things were easy out here. None of the people asked him too much. They talked about the weather. They came to him when they felt under the weather. They gave him jam when they made too much. He’d even gotten invited to dinner a couple of times. He could just exist, pretending that he was perfectly normal. 

“Oh, Ben, before I forget-”

“I told you that ingrown toenail would take a couple of weeks to heal up.”

“No, not that.” John waved his hand, still sorting through the mail. “Someone came over on the ferry looking for ya.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Can’t say I did, but I’ll tell you he wasn’t from round here. Looked like he was about to freeze his mustache off.”

He froze. Oh. Oh no. Oh no no no no no. 

“Yeah,” John continued, “Usually we don’t get tourists this early. Not with weather like this. Earliest I’ve seen them come up is April, not realizing that it’s still wicked cold.”

“Did you see which way he went?” Hawkeye was shoving his hands back into his gloves, quickly getting up.

“I pointed him up your way.”

“Thanks, John.”

“Wait! Don’t you want your mail?”

“I’ll get it later,” Hawkeye called back, shoving open the door and out into the storm. 

***

The worst bit was during December. 

He partially blamed it on the lack of daylight, the sun setting at 4 pm. He partially blamed it on the fog horn, waking him up at all hours of the night. He partially blamed it on the fact that it was fucking freezing out and he had to keep the stove going at all times. He partially blamed it on his dad coming out every weekend. He partially blamed it on a lot of things. What he didn’t blame it on was the fact that he was about six months out from talking to anyone from Korea.

Hawkeye hid it when his dad came up, although the fact that he started coming every weekend meant that he probably wasn’t doing a very good job. That or his dad genuinely didn’t want him to be alone during the holidays, as was his excuse. 

His dreams had become more constant. It seemed like every time Hawkeye closed his eyes he was transported back to the 4077th. Well, not _the_ 4077th. A weird approximation of it. 

Hawkeye had taken to sleeping on the couch and leaving the radio on, trying to ward them away. It worked sometimes. Most of the time the music just made its way into his dream through the jukebox at the O-Club or Charles’s record player in the Swamp. 

_That’s where they were now. Hawkeye was pouring himself a drink. B.J. was talking in the background, although the record player was playing too loud for him to make out his words. It was playing some jazz number, which he thought was an odd choice for Charles. He went to go sit at the edge of B.J.’s bed._

_“Beej, you’re gonna have to speak up.”_

_B.J. was already leaning back in his bed, wearing his fatigues instead of that gaudy henley. He gave a chuckle, seemingly ignoring Hawkeye’s request._

_“I know what I should’ve done,” He said, voice finally coming into focus._

_“What?” Hawkeye responded. He must have missed a beat. Looking down, he saw B.J.’s hand_ — _wrapped in gauze. Oh, this._

_“Could’ve really shown him.”_

_“What, what?” He was back in sync, the confusion gone from his voice._

_“Should’ve died right there on the table.”_

_Hawkeye laughed along. That’s what he was supposed to do. He was dancing the dance, following B.J.’s lead._

_“Wouldn’t we have had the last laugh?”_

_“Well,” B.J. responded, more serious than he remembered, “You are.”_

_That was different. He stopped laughing._

_“What?”_

_“Hawkeye.” He heard Margaret’s voice behind him. Her voice was raw, like she had been crying._

_Hawkeye turned around. His shirt was wet. She was hugging him. She never hugged him, not unless something was wrong. Something was wrong._

_“Hawkeye, I’m sorry.”_

_He wasn’t in the Swamp anymore. He was in Henry’s office. No, not Henry. He was gone, just like Oliver and Frank and Radar and Trapper. They were gone. It was Potter’s office. Most of them were cramped in there, at least those of them who were left; Margaret, Potter, Charles, Francis, Klinger. Someone was missing._

_“Where’s B.J.?”_

_“Hawkeye,” Francis spoke up, holding out a journal, “he wanted you to have this.”_

_“No.” Hawkeye tried to back up, but Margaret was still holding on. “He’ll need this. I—I can’t read this. Where is he?”_

_Potter shook his head, taking off his fishing cap. No, that was Henry’s cap. The room seemed to be shifting around him, trying to decide on what to be._

_“This must be one of his stupid pranks,” He said. “Where are you hiding him?”_

_“Captain,” Klinger spoke up. He was back in his civvies, a little red number Hawkeye hadn’t seen in months. Years? Weeks? “We’re all going to miss him.”_

_“Where is he?” He was yelling now. He didn’t care. Everything was breaking down around him._

_“He wanted to say goodbye,” Margaret said. “He really did.”_

_Hawkeye was in OR now, Margaret standing next to him. He was scrubbed up. There was blood on his gloves. He didn’t look down at the table. He knew what was on the table._

Hawkeye woke in a cold sweat, his heart thumping hard in his chest. It felt like it would burst out at any moment. The radio was still on, although at some point the signal had cut out and it was now playing static. 

He was in Maine. He wasn’t _there_ , he was here. B.J. wasn’t on an operating table, he was in Mill Valley—probably having a nightcap with Peg or tucking Erin into bed. He sat up, gripping the couch arms to ground himself. He needed some air. 

He grabbed his coat and a beer and headed out to the lighthouse. The ocean air would be good for him. He found himself repeating that refrain more and more as nights like these became a regular showing.

The water was surprisingly still for it being so late in the year. It was still freezing, but now calm and clear. His mom used to say that the clear winter days were the worst because there was no blanket of clouds to wrap them in and keep them warm. Hawkeye didn’t know how true that was, but who was he to argue?

The light was slowly rotating, reflecting off the water. It didn’t look like there were any ships out there, but the light kept spinning. Even when there were no witnesses. It felt like he could look out into forever. The horizon blended into the dark sky, the only things distinguishing the two were the twinkling stars. It was serene. It was beautiful. It was mocking him.

He wanted to scream, cry, throw a tantrum, anything to show that he could still care. The cold was already numbing his hands as he took a sip of his drink instead.

He started to pace around the landing, walking in circles as he continued to drink. The last time he’d really been out here—besides all those other times he had come out for a late-night breather—was with Tommy. 

Sitting there, that night in May, while Tommy told him stories about the constellations to distract from the fact he had drunk far too much. They had snuck away from the party together, or—more aptly—Tommy had saved him from making a complete fool of himself. And so they sat out there, Tommy rubbing his back till it passed. He had always seemed to know the right thing to do.

Hawkeye turned around, starting to pace in the other direction. It didn’t matter, but he needed to do something. 

Then there Tommy was—on the table. Still trying to make him feel better, and Hawkeye couldn’t even return the favor. All he could do was stand there. That was all he could do with B.J. too. Just watch as someone else did his job. 

Steadying himself on the railing, He looked back out towards the water. He tried to slow his breathing. _B.J. was fine._ He kept repeating that to himself, to no avail. _You should call him._

That thought shocking him out of his spiral. It was so absurd. Barring the fact that there wasn’t a single phone on the island, what would Hawkeye even say to him? _Hey B.J., I know that it’s far too late to be calling and also I’ve ignored all of the letters you’ve sent so that you don’t have to feel guilty when you inevitably stop writing them but I just wanted to check that you’re—you know_ — _alive and not currently dying in some terrible hand-related injury. Oh, you’re not? Well, that’s all I had to ask. Give Peg my best._

He laughed to himself, glad that he was too far away from the neighbors for them to become concerned about him. He was ridiculous. Here he was, standing in the cold obsessing over a goodbye that never happened.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten a goodbye. He got one written, quite literally, in stone. He tried to tell himself that he was okay with it, he was the one who had asked B.J. to say it after all. Labeling it as ‘asking’ was being generous: it was far closer to begging. 

He really was pathetic. What other loser would have to beg to make sure that he would get a goodbye? He just had that _je ne sais quoi_. 

It didn’t matter what the goodbye was, he still was the one who pushed B.J. away. The one who couldn’t be content with only dinners or conferences. It was better this way—it had to be. 

He finished his beer before heading back inside. 

***

Hawkeye was on the road back up to the lighthouse, doing his best to not break out in a sprint. Just a light jog. Maybe a heavy jog, but not a sprint.

It probably wasn’t B.J.. It was probably some other mustachioed man who didn’t know how to dress for snow. What would he even be doing out here anyway? 

The snow had really picked up, and the wind didn’t help. He could barely see five feet in front of him. It seemed like everyone else was smart enough to have stayed inside today. In fact, he didn’t see anyone at all. 

Hawkeye was getting closer to the house, and there was a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. What if he had gotten lost? What if he had taken the ferry back? What if it wasn’t him at all? Did he even want it to be him? 

Then, he saw somebody walking up ahead. He couldn’t tell who, but he yelled anyway. 

“B.J?” 

B.J. turned around. He did look like a proper tourist. His coat looked better fit for a light drizzle than what was currently blowing through. He could say the same for his hat, gloves, and suitcase. Hawkeye was already running towards him.

“Hawk- Hawkeye! Hawkeye!” B.J. dropped his suitcase before wrapping his arms around Hawkeye, pulling him in for a hug. His hand gripped Hawkeye’s back, holding him tight. The force caused Hawkeye to stumble, almost pushing them both into the snow. But he steadied himself, holding onto B.J. right back. He couldn’t believe it. B.J. was here. _Why was he here?_

Hawkeye pulled back first, “B.J., what—”

B.J. cut him off. “Hawk, you’re a sight for cold eyes. I—” He shuddered. “I—Jesus, it’s cold.”

Hawkeye looked him over, just to make sure that it really was B.J.. That this wasn’t a funny little trick his brain was playing. B.J. looked freezing; there was a thin layer of snow all over him. If he was any paler, he would be blue. Looking at him, it almost felt like they had never left each other’s sides. Right down to the dull knot in his chest at the realization that this meant he’d have to say goodbye all over again.

“No shit. Come on, I’m not too far,” Hawkeye said, taking off his outer coat. “Put this on.”

“No, n-no. I’ll be fine.”

Hawkeye was already brushing the snow off his shoulders. “Oh, I insist,” He said, wrapping B.J. up in it, pulling him towards warmth.

***

When they got inside, Hawkeye dropped B.J. in front of the stove in the living room before going to heat up the coffee. B.J had been out in the sleet long enough that he was thoroughly soaked.

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring a proper coat,” Hawkeye called out, turning the right burner on.

“I’m n-not the one who lives in the n-ninth circle of Hell!” B.J. called back, still chattering. 

Hawkeye went to put on another pot of water before going back out to the living room. 

“You need to take that shit off. All it’s going to do is keep you cold.” He moved to help B.J. out of his coat. “Didn’t you bring anything warmer?”

“Of course I didn’t,” he said, giving Hawkeye one of his signature shit-eating grins.

“You can borrow something of mine. Upstairs, the room on the right. Coffee should be warm when you come back down. We can hang your clothes out to dry later.”

Of course Hawkeye wanted to make sure B.J. was okay, that he wouldn’t freeze, but he also needed a few moments to gather his thoughts. So what if his actions weren’t backed by 100% pure intentions? It wasn’t like he was Catholic. 

“Sounds good to me,” B.J. said, getting up.

B.J. smiled at him, putting his hand on his shoulder. “It’s great to see you, Hawk.” He headed upstairs. 

Hawkeye walked back into the kitchen. He pulled two mugs out from the cabinet and a hot water bottle out from underneath the sink. The coffee was starting to boil, and he left it to percolate. He pulled the other pot off the heat, filling the hot water bottle up.

He didn’t know how to feel about… _this_. The landing pad was supposed to be the last time they saw each other; they had said what they needed to. Sure, B.J. had sent letters, but those would eventually peter out. He would reconnect with Mill Valley, with Peg. He’d get busy at work and spend the weekends at his beach house. He wouldn’t think of Hawkeye anymore. Over the last seven months, he had told himself that countless times. It was better this way. 

Now he’s shown up across the country, unannounced, to ruin all the hard work of isolation that Hawkeye had done. Who did B.J. think he was? Couldn’t he take the hint?

The worst part was that he was enjoying it. 

Hawkeye realized that he was pacing across the kitchen, and went to sit down. And then he stood up again. And sat back down. He compromised by bouncing his leg.

He contemplated pouring himself a drink when he heard B.J.'s footsteps coming down the stairs. He opted to pour coffee for both of them instead. He could save the drink for later.

Going back into the living room, he met B.J. with a mug of coffee and the hot water bottle. He had changed into one of Hawkeye’s flannels and a pair of corduroy pants. The outfit looked odd on him.

“Here you go,” He said, passing the bottle and mug to B.J.

“Thanks,” He said, taking them and sitting on the couch. He held the hot water bottle close, still looking half frozen. “You didn’t have any Hawaiian shirts.”

“B.J., it’s the middle of winter.”

“Yeah, I just assumed.”

There was a pause. The stove creaked in the background. Hawkeye watched as B.J. took a sip of his coffee. 

“So,” He finally interrupted, “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing out here?”

“I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d drop by.”

“Little out of your way, isn’t it?” 

Hawkeye said as he sat down on the chair across from him. He needed a little distance. Well, he wanted to be right next to him, as close as they used to stay. But he needed to keep that distance. For B.J.’s sake. And for his own, why pretend.

B.J. ignored this and leaned forward towards him. 

“You weren’t answering my letters,” B.J. said matter-of-factly. “ I wanted to make sure everything was okay out here.”

Oh, so this was a check-in. He was surprised that he hadn’t sent Sydney in his place. It would’ve saved him the trip. 

“So you came all the way out?”

“In my defense, I thought I was only going to Crabapple Cove. When I got there, your dad informed me I still had a little way to go.”

He forgot how much of a stubborn bastard that B.J. was. 

“Are you hungry? I can put on soup.” He got up, circling around behind the chair he was just sitting in.

“Are you going to tell me what _you’re_ doing out here?”

“Weather’s perfect this time of year. You want tomato or chicken noodle?”

B.J.stared at him. He knew that B.J. wanted more than that. He just wasn’t going to give it to him. Bantering was easy—he was a pro at keeping people at an arm’s length. The dance came naturally to him. 

“If I had known you were coming I would have prepared something nicer, but I was planning on cracking open a can of Campbell's tonight. I’ll pull out the stops tomorrow, scouts honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“Maybe not, but I still got some honor of my own. You can mail order it now.”

B.J. laughed at that, and it was almost enough to make him leap over the coffee table and pull him in for a hug. To completely disregard what was best for both of them. He gripped the back of the chair instead.

“I like chicken noodle,” B.J. said, smiling up at him.

***

Dinner went smooth enough. Hawkeye made chicken noodle soup and they ate at the kitchen table. B.J. asked about his wall of postcards and seemed to be comforted by the fact that Hawkeye hadn’t responded to a single one of them.

Once Hawkeye deflected enough times about himself, B.J. took the hint and told him about his trip. He had apparently taken the red-eye from San Francisco to Boston and then bussed up to Crabapple Cove. Once he got there and found out the Hawkeye wasn’t there, his dad had offered to drive him down to the ferry after feeding him lunch. He had written that he was coming, in a letter that he was sure was currently sitting down in the post office.

“Your dad’s real nice,” B.J. said. “I didn’t expect him to be so quiet, though.”

“Now you see why I wanted to go home so bad. I was worried without me, he’d clam up permanently and never talk again.”

“Maybe he’d figure out that all the world’s his oyster without you hogging the stage,” He volleyed back, giving him a grin.

“Ouch, you wound me.” Hawkeye gripped his chest for dramatic flair. 

“Good thing we’re both doctors,” B.J. said with an insufferable smile.

They had tried to stay up after dinner, but after watching B.J. almost nod off for the third time Hawkeye insisted that they go to bed. They could finish catching up later. He brought him up and put him in the other room, forgetting that it was the kid's room. He almost felt bad leaving B.J. to sleep on a twin bed, but the other option was a non-starter. 

He lit a candle on the side table, leaving a box of matches just in case. It was easier than getting the gas lighting to work up here. 

B.J. sat down at the edge of the other bed while he watched Hawkeye make his own. Neither one of them said anything. Hawkeye put a couple of extra blankets on the bed before saying good night and heading towards the door. 

“Hawk,” B.J. called from the edge of the bed.

“Yeah?”

“I meant it earlier, it’s great to see you. I missed you.”

“Yeah, you too B.J,” Hawkeye said after a moment, before closing the door and heading back downstairs. He needed a drink after all of this.

*** 

Hawkeye had fallen asleep on the couch again, though not on purpose. The fog horn woke him up. He got up and stretched, cracking his back. He really needed to stop doing this or else he’d end up with even worse posture. 

Pulling himself off the couch, he threw another log on the fire before heading upstairs. He wanted to make sure that B.J. didn’t freeze, and he wasn’t sure how much his Californian constitution could handle. There were the winters in Korea, but they had spent those huddled together like sardines gathered around the nearest warm thing. 

Winters felt worse over there. Although that was probably the combination of the shitty army supply jackets, the lack of firewood, and the, you know, war. 

_It was late when he was coming back from post-op. The wind was nipping at his nose and slicing at the rest of his face. It was early December, so the weather was bad and only going to get worse. Charles had come to relieve him and he was expecting that B.J. would be sleeping by now. So he was surprised to find him awake, listening to some nondescript jazz record that one of them had picked up in Seoul, and—judging by how flushed he was—very drunk._

_“Hawk, finally,” He said, lifting himself up from his chair. “Can I interest you in a martini?”_

_“When have I ever turned down a drink from you?”_

_B.J. went to pour him one, spilling only a little bit._

_B.J. had always better than any of them at looking normal; at putting on a happy face. The facade had held until Radar left and that damn letter from Peg arrived. That left hook had come out of right field. Hawkeye was sure that the still was surprised too, although maybe it had seen it coming. Maybe B.J. was obvious to everyone but Hawkeye. Maybe he just didn’t know B.J. like he thought he did._

_“What’s the occasion?” Hawkeye asked, sitting down on his bed._

_“To keeping out the damn cold!” B.J. called out, passing the glass over to Hawkeye._

_“I’ll drink to that.” He held up his glass for a toast, relieved that was all._

_“You better catch up.”_

_B.J. had sat down on the chair next to Hawkeye’s bed, switching sides._

_“Does it get this bad in Maine?”_

_“Oh yeah,” Hawkeye said, nodding, “But I never had to sleep in a tent in December in Maine.”_

_“We never got this in San Francisco,” B.J. took a sip and paused, “Well, it got cold for us. But not like what you’re used to.”_

_“How do you know what I’m used to?”_

_“I can guess,” B.J. said, with that little smirk of his._

_Hawkeye tried not to roll his eyes as he took a sip._

_“Tell me about it.”_

_This seemed to throw B.J. a little bit._

_“About what?”_

_“California in Winter.”_

_“Are you asking for a fantasy?” B.J. gave him a sly smile._

_“No.” Hawkeye leaned forward towards B.J.. “I’m asking for a history lesson.”_

_“Well then, let’s start with the Donners.”_

_Hawkeye pushed B.J.’s arm, who was far too pleased with himself._

_“C’mon, how many times have I told you about Crabapple Cove?”_

_“Fine, fine,” B.J. said, starting again. “Every morning I would chop wood to keep the cabin warm.”_

_“You’re so full of bullshit.”_

_“Nothing exciting ever happened! I don’t know what you were expecting.”_

_“You don’t have any snow day stories? I’d always thought those San Francisco hills would be perfect for sledding.”_

_“Too bad we never got snow.”_

_“Never?”_

_“Never.” He paused, turning his gaze away from Hawkeye and into his glass. “Although my friends and I always held out hope. We would,” He said, laughing to himself, “we would wear our pajamas inside out the whole winter to try and get at least one flake. It never worked, but we eventually convinced one of their parents to take us to the snow.”_

_“Maybe if we wore ours inside out the war would end tomorrow,” Hawkeye joked, taking a sip._

_“Now there’s an idea.” B.J. put down his glass._

_He lifted himself up once again, steadying himself on the table. He lifted his sweater over his head, revealing a little bit of his stomach that Hawkeye definitely wasn’t looking at. He flipped it inside out and put it back on before turning towards Hawkeye. He was giving him a grin that felt like a threat. A friendly threat, but a threat nonetheless._

_“Beej?”_

_“The magic only works if we both do it.” He leaned forward._

_“Fine, Fine! Take this,” He said, passing his glass to B.J., who took it as gracefully as he could._

_He stood up, shimmed out of his coat, and pulled off the flannel that his dad had sent. He made a big show out of turning it inside out before putting it back on. He gave a little bow, finishing the theatrics. B.J. clapped in response, fully spilling the rest of Hawkeye’s martini._

_“Fuck,” He said, getting up. “I’m sorry, I’ll pour you another one.”_

_“I got it, Beej,” Hawk grabbed the glass from B.J.’s with one hand and patted his shoulder with the other. “Don’t worry about it. Make yourself comfortable.”_

_When he had turned back from the still he saw that B.J. was sitting on his bed. Of course he was._

_“The magic worked, you got a new martini!”_

_“I thought it was supposed to bring peace to Korea, or a snow day.”_

_“Magic works in mysterious ways.”_

_He sat back down, right next to B.J. this time._

_“What would you do? If the war ended tomorrow?” He asked._

_“You sure are full of questions tonight.”_

_“Humor me.”_

_“The same thing I’ve been dreaming about for the last year and change,” B.J. responded, “spend the day with Peg and Erin. I’ve already got the restaurant for our first date night back picked out. We’ll go to the Top of the Mark_ — _it’s the best way to see the whole city. Then dancing out on the town, or maybe just go walking along the waterfront.”_

_“Of course.”_

_Hawkeye took a sip of the martini. It was dry, sticking to his tongue. They had run out of olives a couple of weeks ago, so calling it a martini by any definition was a stretch at this point. Calling the lighter fluid they drank gin would have also been a stretch, but he’d been doing that since the beginning._

_He knew what B.J.’s answer would be - what his future was - but sometimes he felt like he needed to give him a little reminder. To hear it from B.J. and make sure that they were on the same page. Especially when he got close like this._

_“What about you?”_

_Hawkeye turned towards B.J., his turn to be caught off guard. Usually, this is where the conversation went in the direction of whatever milestone Erin had most recently passed for what seemed like the fifth time, or whatever hobby Peg had taken up in B.J.’s absence that he would inevitably get insecure about._

_“I, uh, I don’t know. Go home. Sleep. Eat real food.”_

_“You don’t have a plan?”_

_“I’ve been here so long it’s hard to think of one.”_

_B.J. gave him a look that 5 degrees soberer would have been pity. Here it was just a kind of sadness. Hawkeye took another sip of his lighter fluid._

_“I’ll give you one.”_

_B.J. grabbed onto his arm for support._

_“You will?”_

_“Since the war is ending tomorrow because of us,” He said, tugging on Hawkeye’s still inside-out flannel, “you’ll definitely be home in time for New Years'. I assume that even Crabapple Cove has fireworks shows. You can watch it from one of your beaches. There’s your plan.”_

_“By myself on a cold beach,” He said, laughing hollowly. “Some future, Beej.”_

_“You’re the storyteller!”_

_“I give you Lana Turner and you give me New Year’s Eve alone, I see how it is,” He said, keeping it light. It did sting a little. Everyone else had a future after the war, he just thought that it wasn’t so obvious that he couldn’t see one for himself. “Is this because of the angora sweater?”_

_“C’mon, you won’t be alone,” B.J. responded, not following Hawkeye’s line of deflection._

_“What a bout of confidence B.J.”_

_“Don’t be like that. Listen, I’ll—I’ll celebrate with you.”_

_“Oh, you will?”_

_“Sure! We can sit on the beach and watch the fireworks. Obviously, we’ll drink something a little more festive, maybe some mulled wine. And we’ll count down to the new year and have a toast to the old one.” He paused. “Actually maybe we can just spit on the old one. Nothing much to toast, is there?”_

_B.J. leaned into Hawkeye, still holding on to his arm._

_“See, you won’t be alone.”_

_Hawkeye hated when B.J. would do this. He didn’t know any better, it wasn’t like he had any idea how Hawkeye felt. How could he? It wasn’t like he could just say, “Hey Beej, I think I’m in love with you and have been since you picked up on my stupid joke at Kimpo. Hope this doesn’t change anything,” in casual conversation. B.J. was just trying to make him feel better, which he did. He just also drove him crazy._

_“Only one hitch to your plan.”_

_“What?”_

_“I’ll be dead before you find me on a Maine beach in January.”_

_This got B.J. to laugh. Finally, a deflection that worked._

_“Let up! The most I know about New England is from you, Charles, and Robert Frost.”_

_“Oh, so you read Robert Frost.”_

_B.J. was now fully leaning onto Hawkeye, head on his shoulder. His martini was long abandoned on the table. Hawkeye knew B.J. wasn’t going to be able to stay up much longer, and he would be the one to bring him back to his cot. Just like he had done countless times before. Just like B.J. had done for him countless times before._

_ I’m very well-read,” He mumbled, “My favorite is the snowy one.” _

_ “The snowy one? How descriptive.” _

_ “You know, it has the line about the woods,” He yawned, “and then: But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.” _

Hawkeye walked up the stairs and went to sleep in a real bed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos! They really made my day!!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I've been working on this for a while, so it feels good to finally get it published. I'll be posting the next chapters over the next couple of weeks. Also, I've never been to Maine nor the Bay Area, so we're going off of research and vibes. 
> 
> Thanks to my friend Ana for checking my grammar even though she's only seen the 2 and 1/2 episodes of MASH that I forced her to watch. She's a real trooper!
> 
> Some references:  
> The island is loosely based on Isle au Haut, an island off of Maine with a lighthouse. It took a lot of liberties, but the inspiration is there none-the-less.  
> I ripped the line "these postcards were like torture devices from his best friend" from a Mountain Goats song called Source Decay.  
> Rochester's specialty is called the garbage plate (it's my fic and I can make fun of western new york if I want)


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